


The Elvenking

by HolyQuiznak01



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Elves, Gen, Hallucinations, Mirkwood, loosely inspired by Erlkönig, which one is it? read to find out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26609365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolyQuiznak01/pseuds/HolyQuiznak01
Summary: “Uncle, uncle!” they cry as one. “We must hurry, for he is drawing near!”The king frowns. “Of whom do you speak?”“The Elvenking, the Elvenking!”Alternatively, elves are creepy.
Kudos: 3





	The Elvenking

**Author's Note:**

> I based this off the poem Erlkönig, a wonderful piece by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe after listening to Schubert's piece, which is wonderful and was the highlight of music theory. You should listen to it if you haven't already!

“Don’t wander off the path,” the wizard had warned before he left them.

* * *

The wizard wonders if he should have given more warning. But no—they were dwarves, and unlikely to fall prey to the powers of Mirkwood.

There was no light in the forest Mirkwood, just the pressing darkness of years of evil and decay. The leaves were much too still, seeming to suspend themselves in the air.

The Company trudged on and on, pushing and shoving at the brambles and branches. Before long, they were too tired and weary to register the unnatural rustling of the leaves in the still air.

A faint laugh permeates the air. A smooth and silky voice, taunting with its promises of comfort.

“Uncle, Uncle!” cries Kíli, stumbling over solid ground. “Can you hear? Do you hear it?”

Thorin barely pauses to listen and shakes his head at his nephew. “There is nothing there. Now make haste! We will not dwell.”

Kíli settles, the voice quickly forgotten.

A faint snarl follows the Company, fading out before they could hear.

Something scuttles along in the shadows, unheard by all but the lone hobbit.

“Thorin, Thorin!” cries Bilbo. “Do you hear the sound of the spiders?”

The king stops. But the scuttling has stopped, and thus he hears nothing. “No, burglar, I do not. Now hurry, and do not dawdle.”

Bilbo huffs but doesn’t protest. The scuttling _had_ stopped after all. Perhaps he’d only imagined it.

The next to notice is Nori, with his sharp eyes and keener instinct. For no spider walks so close together, with marks that span further than his hand.

“There is trouble to be had,” he mutters to Dori and Ori.

Ori, irritable from days of darkness and stumbling, barely registers the words, resolutely walking on.

Dori frowns. “There is nothing there, Nori. We just need to get out of this dreaded forest before all of us are seeing things.

The splash and calmness of the cold, black stream halt them on their way. A fallen willow makes a convenient, if not sturdy, bridge.

One by one, dwarves and hobbit cross the tree, their hold sliding off the water-worn branches and drenched trunk.

They trudge on, their grumbling renewed at the damp that permeates their cloaks and packs.

Thorin glances back. Fíli and Kíli are staring into the darkened branches, steps behind everyone else.

“Uncle, uncle!” they cry as one. “We must hurry, for he is drawing near!”

The king frowns. “Of whom do you speak?”

“The Elvenking, the Elvenking!”

The king stiffens, spinning around wildly to search their surroundings.

Not a leaf rustles, not a blade sways, and the mist remains, ever stifling and cloaking the figures of the Company.

“There is naught but mist. Now come, and do not dawdle.”

But the brothers refuse to budge.

For the Elvenking whispers in their minds, speaking of garments of gold and revelry of souls.

The blades of grass sway at their feet, faster and even faster still, building up momentum bit by bit.

Dwalin barks at them to go, the rough guard pausing even as the king moves on.

They jump, and quickly hurry to rejoin the others.

That night, as they settle down for supper, a light appears on the horizon, bobbing ever closer.

The king sees naught, for he has gone hunting.

The pale and drawn faces of wispy spirits surround the remaining thirteen.

“Look here!” they cry. “A company of thirteen in our woods?”

“Stay back!” yells the guard, jumping to his feet. “Stay back and leave us, or you will taste my axe!”

They laugh and laugh.

“Why, they look so weak and frail! Would you not join us, for our revelry and our gold?”  
  
“I have no use for gold!” cries the sole hobbit. “For gold will not give back their home, nor will it feed them.”  
  
“We have flowers too,” said the elves, for that was what the creatures were. “Flowers that bloom so gay, and unfold in many colours.”

“And what use are flowers, to reclaim our land, and to build our armour?” Bofur shakes his head. “No, I have no use of flowers.”

The elves, stretched and thin, looked angry, as much as wispy beings could look angry.

At that moment, the king returns, holding the body of a stork.

The elves cackle, and part, to make way for a figure robed in green. The figure smiles, a dark and twisted thing under the guise of a gaily happy look. His long blond hair floats slightly, just unnaturally enough to appear alien.

“The Elvenking!” cry Fíli and Kíli.

The king, dropping the storks, looks straight through the figures. “What of Elven-kings? There are no elves here, and be thankful for that!”

“But he is here, uncle, and he is angry,” chorus the two.

“Sweet children, you have nothing to fear. I wish only for a little company. Play with me, my lads, and dance amongst my people. My daughters and my sons and subjects will sing and dance and bring you to peace.”

“Can you truly not see? The visions of his subjects and his children, approaching as I speak!” The blond dwarf demands, stepping towards his uncle.

“Well, then run, don’t dawdle! There is no use staying here. Pack up your stuff and leave what must be left, but make haste,” says the king.

The face of the Elvenking twists into a wordless snarl, his eyes blackening, fingers sharpening, and his hand brushes that of the young dwarrow as he lunges at the group.

And the elders scoop up the now screaming dwarves, quickly putting on their packs and following the king.

None noticed that they had strayed from the path.

Their screams bounce off the excitedly swaying trees, and startle doves from their perch in the trees, now becoming more visible as the canopy opens up.

The terrain is rough, rougher than even the roughest parts of the forest, with its gnarled roots and misshapen bushes and sharp, broken rocks and stones.

The laughter of the elves follows them on their way out, turning fainter and sharper as they jump over the fallen trees.

One by one, the dwarves and hobbit begin to lag. Their energy is spent. They pant and pant and gasp for breath, and abruptly notice that their energy is fading—much faster than normal.

“My king, my king!” gasps the old advisor, “we cannot go on for much longer, we are all much too tired!”

The king does not hear and keeps running on as if the elves had gone to chase them.

“Keep running, keep running!” he cries. “The edge draws ever nearer, and we must leave in haste!”

A blackbird croons at the branch on the edge, striking in the face of silence, and he draws back. There were no pants, nor breaths, nor footfalls or stumbles. There was nothing to be heard.

Apprehensively, he turns, one foot already stepped outside the grave forest.

And there, behind him, lies his company, dead.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I shoved way more in there than what the Erlkönig had, but I tried to keep the main theme relatively intact.
> 
> The use of the river was mostly for the idea that it could have also been a hallucination.
> 
> I fully blame English class and music theory for planting this idea into my head


End file.
